


gentle meet the hands that hold water

by lothlaer



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pre-Relationship, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tenderness, Yennefer is not very good at identifying her feelings, can possibly be read as platonic. maybe, they h#ld h?nds ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothlaer/pseuds/lothlaer
Summary: The water is just the right side of hot, and his hands are soft on her skin.Rivulets of dirt and blood-stained soapy water run over his fingers, down her arm and into the bath. She watches as the grime starts to disappear, as he adjusts his gentle grip to turn over her hand and clean the other side.It becomes easy to settle into the repetitive motions, to let her mind drift away and empty of everything but the feeling of being cleansed and the heavy, dark quiet of exhaustion.Jaskier helps Yennefer take a bath. Annoyingly, some feelings are felt in the process.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 92
Kudos: 257





	gentle meet the hands that hold water

**Author's Note:**

> I love these idiots so much and wanted them to have some tenderness, so I wrote over 6k of bathing and bedtime. Lockdown's been interesting.

The water is just the right side of hot, and his hands are soft on her skin.

The fight had been hard – besting a group of at least twenty Nilfgaardian soldiers was no easy task for one mage and a bard, but they made it out. Jaskier was hidden behind a thicket for most of it, but had managed to lob some particularly sharp rocks at a few heads with impressive accuracy. The man’s pretty much useless, but Yennefer isn’t going to complain about the only backup she had. Well, she might a _bit_ , later – when her legs aren’t threatening to give out on her at any second.

She has to reassure Jaskier that _she’s okay, she’s alright_ , but he doesn’t quite seem to believe her until they’re back at an inn where he can see that she isn’t actively bleeding anywhere, and it’s just fatigue from over-exerting herself in the fight that’s making her so weak. She can hear the slightly frantic beat of his heart, feel the heat of his skin even through his doublet where she’s got her arm thrown over his shoulder. He helps her up the stairs, her feet dragging slightly. She wishes she didn’t have to rely on him this much, determined as always to do things herself, but she’s too tired to really care.

He sits her down on a chair and tells her he’s going to get the innkeeper to run a bath. She looks down at herself, at the blood, sweat, mud and ash staining her skin and her dress, and lets her eyes fall closed.

“Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s voice jolts her from some murky place between wake and sleep that she knows she’s lost some time to. She looks up to where he’s standing in the doorway, no longer wearing his doublet, a small crease of what she fears is concern on his brow.

“The bath’s ready.”

The words are slow to filter through to her brain and she stares at him dumbly for a moment before pushing herself to her feet. It takes more out of her than she was expecting. There’s a slight blur to her vision and a trembling in her legs but she forces herself to take a step, then another. Jaskier moves to get out of her way – he’s obviously trying to give her space and she’s grateful for it. She doesn’t need any help.

The world swirls a little as she reaches the doorway and she throws out a hand to catch herself against the wall, her knees shaking. There are suddenly hands at her elbow and back, keeping her from falling, and she feels the desire to flinch, to pull away and tell him to _fuck off_ but she’s just… too tired.

“I can—”

“I know,” he interrupts, and they say nothing else.

She lets him lead her along the short hallway to the washroom, his hands supportive but not demanding, gentle enough to let her know she can pull away whenever she wants.

The room is warm and dark, steam swirling up towards the ceiling in the candlelight.

Yennefer’s gaze lands immediately on the bathtub, her entire body aching to be in the water as soon as possible. Jaskier eases her onto a stool that sits by the tub then backs away a few steps, his fingers twitching at his sides. She thinks he’s going to say something annoying or make a crass joke but he just turns away, busying himself with the salts and soaps at the side of the room.

She leans over and tugs her boots off then starts undoing the fastenings on her dress, fingers clumsy and slow. It takes a few minutes but she manages to get the laces loose enough to slip the layers off her shoulders, pulling her arms free and letting the fabric pool around her waist.

She hesitates for a moment, eyes falling on the broad shoulders of the man across the room and wondering what his reaction might be – she knows his reputation all too well. He doesn’t hide his desires even in formal settings when people are fully dressed; Yennefer can’t imagine what kind of atrocious attempt at seduction he might put her through here. He’s a man, after all.

But she’s not exactly been shy about being nude in front of him before. And, loathe as she is to admit it, she trusts him.

She takes a breath and stands so that the dress slides off her hips and crumples at her feet, sitting again quickly before she falls. She hooks her fingers under her stockings and slips them off her legs, the fabric sticking in places where it’s wet with muck. Despite the steam, the air is unpleasantly cool on her naked skin.

Yennefer imagines herself getting into the water – the warmth sinking deep into her muscles, calming her mind – but she can’t find it in herself to actually move. Jaskier must sense that she’s done. He turns.

She feels small, suddenly. Small and so unbearably vulnerable, sitting naked on just a wooden stool, alone in a room with a man who’s well-known for flirting with nearly anything that has a heartbeat. And her heart is certainly beating.

He looks only at her face, eyes never drifting down.

_Good boy_ , Yennefer thinks, willing her heart to slow.

Jaskier collects her filthy clothes off the floor and makes to move for the door.

She tries to stand and fails miserably, leaning on her hands on the rim of the tub, suddenly staring directly into the water. Oh god, if she just bends forward a little more—

A hand catches her, _again_ , stopping her from toppling head-first into the bath.

Jaskier’s making annoying little noises, low and meaningless. He squawks inelegantly when Yennefer jabs an elbow into his ribs, but she doesn’t pull away, so neither does he. She lets him take some of her weight, her limbs feeling like they weigh a ton as they stumble the few steps to the tub.

She lifts her feet over the edge and steps into the bath, Jaskier’s arms secure around her as he lowers her down.

The water is bliss. She can’t help the groan she lets out.

“ _That_ good?” Jaskier says, untangling himself from her arms. “It’s just one of my many and varied talents, actually: getting the bathwater temperature just right.”

Yennefer slips down until everything but her head is submerged, relishing the sensation of heat soaking back into her body. She closes her eyes.

“The innkeeper heated this water, Jaskier.” She’s horribly aware that her voice is uncharacteristically quiet and lacking in its usual bite.

“Ah, you see, dearest Yennefer”— she can hear him moving around the room as he speaks, and ignores the tiny jolt in her chest at the term of endearment —"you were too busy taking a nap sitting upright to see me test it, find it lacking, and demand – very forcefully, I might add – that said innkeeper bring the temperature up with at _least_ one more bucket.”

She can feel the smile stretching her lips, and she hates it.

“ _Very forcefully_ ,” she mimics. “It wasn’t your coin that made him do it, then?”

Jaskier draws in an exaggerated gasp. “I’m wounded, honestly, that you’d even suggest such a thing.”

Yennefer isn’t going to think about him spending his money on her. She’s not.

She listens to his footsteps on the floorboards, expecting him to leave with an idiotic remark or inappropriate joke, but he stops by the bath instead. She can feel his presence at her side and reluctantly lifts her heavy eyelids to find him gazing down at her.

He’s got a sponge in one hand, holding it out to her slightly. It’s easily within her reach.

Yennefer looks at him for a long moment. His mouth doesn’t move, but his wide eyes ask clearly enough.

_Let me?_

She feels the urge to reach out and snatch the sponge from him, to demand that he leave her in peace – but he seems to actually be shutting his irritating mouth for once. And she really is _exhausted_. Being reckless with your powers has its cost. But the bard had been directly in the line of fire – she’d seen several of the soldiers spot his hiding place (not that it’s hard to see him when the man refuses to wear anything but obnoxiously bright colours) – and she couldn’t let him get hurt.

Geralt would be upset if any harm came to his minstrel, after all.

Yennefer has no desire to be dealing with the witcher’s ire today. That’s all the tight knot in her chest had been, in the moment she’d seen an arrow aimed towards Jaskier’s chest and had had to divert its course – annoyance that she’d have to be the one to tell Geralt about the idiot’s untimely end.

She considers the sponge, the water lapping at her neck, his stupid doughy face in the lowlight. Weariness settles deep in her bones, the rumbling power of her chaos so far out of reach now.

Maybe, for once, it will be… tolerable. _Nice_ , even, to not have to do everything herself.

She meets his eyes and doesn’t move.

She knows he can interpret it how he likes. She’s giving him an out – he could take her inaction as her being stubborn; her stare as a silent demand that he leave her alone. If he goes, she’s not sure she’ll be able to do more than lie still and hope a long soak will clean her enough, before dragging herself to a bed. It won’t be pleasant but she’ll manage it by herself, like she always has.

Yennefer looks into Jaskier’s eyes and dares him to have the courage to stay.

He pulls the wooden stool under him and sits down.

She tries to slow the pace of her breathing.

He lifts his hands over the rim of the tub, dipping the sponge in the water before lathering up some soap on it. He makes a little gesture at her, waiting for her to initiate contact. She raises her arm out of the water, bumping her forearm against his open hand. He takes her wrist, bringing her arm closer to him, and begins slowly wiping the sponge over the ridges of her knuckles, the spaces between her fingers, the sensitive skin of her palm. She doesn’t flinch at the touch of his fingertips on the still-gnarled line of her scars, but something inside her lurches slightly.

Rivulets of dirt and blood-stained soapy water run over his fingers, down her arm and into the bath. She watches as the grime starts to disappear, as he adjusts his gentle grip to turn over her hand and clean the other side.

She can feel the bubble of anxiety rise in her again, the quiet fear that Jaskier will try something or say something now that he’s touching her. The urge to break the silence, to insult him and push him away, climbs like a twisting vine through her stomach and chest and squeezes at her throat.

He rinses the sponge and rubs in more soap. The scent is subtle, fresh – she recognises it from both the man in front of her and Geralt’s skin.

Yen is aware of at least some of the witcher and his bard’s routines. They’re more intimate than many travel companions would be, but that’s to be expected with the years they’ve spent together. She doesn’t ask. Only a few months ago they’d stripped down and plunged into a cold river while Yennefer had been putting up her tent, and she’d watched from a distance as they’d tossed soaps and oils between them in easy companionship. Geralt may grumble and huff about the other man, but it’s obvious how much they care for each other.

She looks at the way Jaskier cradles her wrist, one finger resting on the point where her pulse beats, over the marks of her past, and the urge to speak grows and bursts on her tongue.

“Is this the way you treat your witcher?” she snipes, adjusting her position a little. “I’ve always struggled to work out why he keeps you around. Perhaps this is the solitary reason.”

It’s a compliment disguised in an insult, and she hopes he doesn’t point it out.

Jaskier snorts, running the sponge up her arm, over the crease of her elbow.

“Oh gods, no,” he says, his expression curled in amusement. “No, the great oaf spends our bath times grumbling and _hmm_ -ing and is more often than not covered in stinking entrails. I usually just toss a few buckets of water over his head and tell him to stop complaining.”

Yennefer’s desire to tease him and belittle his actions washes away like the dirt on her skin. She stares at him dumbly, unable to close her mouth or look away despite knowing he must be able to see her expression.

_This isn’t something he does with Geralt._

It’s a horrifying realisation that warms her more than the bathwater ever could.

Suddenly, every stroke of the sponge seems to carry more meaning. He’s being gentle, _tender_ , and it feels like such a long time since someone has treated her with care unless they were in her bed.

Jaskier reaches her shoulder, wiping it efficiently before lowering her arm back into the bathtub, cupping water in his palm and splashing it up a few times to rinse away the soap suds. He picks up the stool and moves around to her left side, gesturing for her to give him her other arm.

He starts in the same place, and Yennefer realises he hasn’t once held her hand or fingers, only ever clasping her wrist and forearm, his grip careful over her scars. She leans back further against the rim of the bathtub, letting her head fall to the side to look directly, unashamedly, at the man. He strokes the sponge along her arm over and over again, never lingering for too long in one spot. His focus is on whatever area of skin he’s cleaning, eyes never straying away – but never meeting her gaze either.

It’s an opportunity to really _look_ at him.

_Like one might look at a rather disgusting bug_ , she tries to justify to herself.

For once, Jaskier’s not being performative – not putting on any faces, not bouncing around the place, not _talking_. His expression is calm, soft, his blue eyes dark in the candlelight. His eyelashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the skin there slightly flushed. Her eyes follow the way his jaw cuts a neat line above the column of his neck, the throb of his pulse beating beneath his dirty skin. She’s not blind – she can see what so many men and women find attractive about him, why their eyes are drawn to the shape of his lips, his bright and easy smiles, his expressiveness. There’s soot and mud and sweat clinging to the peaks and crevices of his face and she wonders if he’ll bathe after her.

He finishes with her hand and forearm, moving past her elbow to clean her bicep and the tip of her shoulder.

She drags her gaze up. He’s closer than before, barely a foot away, and she can see all the creases at the edges of his eyes, the few faint freckles that dust his nose. His hair falls messily over his forehead, no doubt knotted and grimy from the fight.

He looks so different. She’s seen him relaxed, focused on tasks around a camp – but never this close, and never for this long.

In fact, he’s being so quiet that she thinks there might be something wrong with him. Maybe he was hurt in the fight after all and is too busy stifling noises of pain to make asinine comments or try to flirt with her. Or maybe he got hit in the head hard enough to damage the part of his brain that insists on babbling nonsense all the time. One can only hope for such blessings, though, and she’s found through her life that wishes aren’t often granted.

Unfortunately, she concludes after more observation, there appears to be nothing wrong with him. Nothing to explain his uncharacteristic peacefulness, anyway. It seems he’s just genuinely trying to be unobtrusive – _soothing_ , even.

Not that Yennefer’s complaining. Her mind feels fuzzy and slow and the muffled sound of conversation wafting up from the bar below them is already loud enough on her over-sensitive ears. She just wonders why Jaskier is being so considerate; what possible reason he could have for doing all of this.

She keeps staring at him now that she knows he won’t stare back. He rinses her arm off like he did the other, and positions it on the rim of the bathtub so she can hold on to it. Shuffling the stool further away from her, he slowly reaches under the water until his fingertips touch her ankle. She bends her knee, allowing him to take the weight of her leg as he raises it out of the water.

The process begins again – more soap, gentle strokes of the sponge, hot hands on her skin.

She still hates how small she feels, how exposed – it makes her skin crawl to think that someone, especially that someone being _Geralt’s fucking bard_ , is seeing her like this. But every minute she spends being cared for, every minute Jaskier focuses on the task at hand and not her vulnerability, she can feel herself relaxing more.

It becomes easy to settle into the repetitive motions, to let her mind drift away and empty of everything but the feeling of being cleansed and the heavy, dark quiet of exhaustion.

She opens her eyes some unknowable time later to the murmured sound of her name.

Jaskier stands at her side, holding out the sponge again, this time with the soap too.

“I’ll turn away,” he says, and Yennefer’s brain catches up to what he means.

She takes them from him and he does as he said he would, silently facing the wall. She quickly cleans her face, chest and between her legs, squeezing the suds out of the sponge once she’s done, watching the water swirl around her stomach and turn cloudy.

“Bard,” she prompts, voice husky, and he pivots to face her.

He takes back the sponge and soap and sits down again.

“Lean forward,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

Yennefer grabs the edges of the tub and starts to pull herself forward. Jaskier’s hand rests lightly on her spine, a discreet offer of support if she needs it. She almost allows herself to lean into him.

Letting her head hang forward, she stares at the tinted bathwater and tries not to think of broad, cautious hands.

He sweeps her hair off her back and she can sense what he’s about to do. The sponge moves over her back from one shoulder to the other, crossing her spine on the way. She can feel her muscles tensing, her breath trapped somewhere in the cage of her ribs that she can’t free it from.

Jaskier stops, withdrawing immediately.

“Yen?”

The quiet stretches out between them. She exhales, shaky and quick, her hair mercifully falling around her face so he can’t see her expression.

“Is it… your spine?”

Yennefer’s never told him about it – about how she was born and how she was changed. She thinks for a moment that it must have been Geralt, before realising she’s never told him either.

He asked, once – the first time they met, in fact. She remembers. _Split ends_ , he’d joked, sitting back to back with her in a bath so unlike this one, with no idea he was pressed up against the very part of her that had been so agonisingly reformed.

It can’t have been him. A rumour, then, or simple word of mouth must have brought the knowledge to Jaskier. He’s a terrible gossip, after all.

“Yes,” she answers, still gazing into the depths of the water. Her mouth opens again before she can stop it.

“How did you know?”

She doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation, but it does nonetheless. She looks up past the curtain of her hair to see the bard floundering slightly, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

“I—“ he starts and stops, glancing down to her bare shoulders. “I can see.”

It doesn’t sound as though his knowledge of her _correction_ is a recent revelation – certainly not something he’s just noticed in the past couple of minutes. And he didn’t say that anyone had told him. Yennefer’s throat goes dry.

“When?” she rasps, unable to get her brain working enough to form the full question she means.

Jaskier’s brow furrows a little.

“A long time,” he answers, as if this should be obvious. “It’s— Well, it’s—”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re a little… uneven.”

So she was right – he hasn’t been told. He just… noticed.

Yennefer knows her shoulders still sit strangely, _a little uneven_ , as Jaskier says. Magic can only ever do so much. _It’s not real_ , she reminds herself often. The reality of who she is, how she was born, the cruelty of her world – it rests between her shoulder blades, the gaps of her vertebra, in the lingering aches that have never left her. It’s not something that’s easy to notice, though – not unless someone is looking hard enough. Not unless they _know_ her.

She can’t help but feel uncomfortable at the notion that Jaskier knows her that well, at the realisation that he’s somehow become a fixed presence in her life – but part of her warms to it. Any anchor in the swirling storm that is her long existence carries weight, meaning.

“I— Sorry.”

Jaskier’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. He’s looking at her like she’s about to turn him into a little pile of dust.

She huffs out a breathy ‘ _hm’_ , turns her head back to the water, and closes her eyes.

“Some faults are not so easily erased.”

The water is cooling around her.

“Is it hurting?” Jaskier asks, soft.

Yennefer breathes.

“Nearly always.”

The stool creaks. A door slams in the inn beneath them.

“Be gentle,” she says, giving permission.

He places his hand on the back of her neck to keep her still, and the intimacy of it is nearly overwhelming. He starts again, wiping carefully over her shoulders, the bump at the base of her neck, the ridges of her spine. Never pressing too hard, but enough to clean her. Her muscles and bones twinge with pain anyway.

Yennefer listens to the water trickle down her back and drip into the bath, the squeeze of the sponge, Jaskier’s breaths. It’s over quickly. The palm returns to her neck, guiding her to lie back again.

She lets him lead her down, down, until his hand and the back of her head meet the water. She holds her nose and sinks under the surface. It’s somehow both quiet and loud with only the rush of her blood and the movement of the water in and around her ears, the outside world gone mute for a few long moments. She feels small again. Weightless. Everything else drops away.

The hand lifts her back up, helping her to sit upright again. She keeps her eyes shut, content to stay in the orange-tinged darkness.

Jaskier fiddles with something, feet shuffling on the floor, and then there are fingers in her hair, a scent drifting to her nose. It’s her own hair soap – he must have got it from her bags when he was having the bath filled.

His fingertips are firm, pressing lines back and forth across her scalp as he brings the soap to a lather – though he doesn’t linger long enough for her to call it a massage.

It’s not a massage.

A shiver runs through her, quick and small, and his hands pause their motions for a fraction of a second before pushing towards the base of her skull. He strokes the soap down through the lengths of her hair, pulling his fingers through knots until they come loose. The little tugs at her scalp ease some of the aching pressure in her head, release some of the tense muscles in her face.

Jaskier lets go to fetch what Yennefer presumes is another bucket from the sound it makes when he places it down. Then the warm palm is back, on her forehead this time, tilting her head back. He uses a cup to scoop fresh water from the bucket and pour it slowly over her head, rinsing the soap from her hair section by section, cup by cup, until it’s clean.

The water is just the right side of hot, and his hands are soft on her skin. He touches her on her head, her neck, over her ears. She leans into him, just a little.

When he’s done, he helps her upright again, her head resting heavy in his hand. He wrings the excess water out of her hair and she blinks droplets out of her eyes, catching one of the candles on the other side of the room flicker and go out, curls of smoke rising from the remains of the wick. It’s getting cooler, both from the heat draining out of the bath and the night that’s closing in.

Jaskier’s attention returns to her head, this time smoothing in her hair oil, the scent distinct and sweet. He runs his fingers down the long strands over and over, making sure it’s spread evenly. Sleep pulls at Yennefer again, her limbs heavy in the water. She stares blankly at the wall ahead of her until Jaskier finishes.

“There, much better,” he declares serenely, gathering up the dark locks of hair and laying them over one shoulder, draping past her collarbone. “Presentable, even.”

“Implying I wasn’t before?”

“Yes. You looked like – and this is putting it mildly – _ripe shit_.”

Yennefer snorts a laugh.

She’s following the path of a drop of condensation as it rolls down the wall when she feels it. A quick touch on her still-crooked left shoulder: the gentle pressure of soft lips, an exhalation of hot breath. A kiss.

She turns to look at him, but he’s already stood up and facing away, unfolding a towel.

Yennefer’s breath catches, her throat tightening and eyes stinging. She swallows the feeling down and starts trying to push herself up.

Jaskier turns back to her and rushes over when he sees what she’s doing. He slots himself easily under her arm, helping her to her feet. The water sloshes around her shins, some splashing over the lip of the tub, then more when she raises each foot out of the bath and steps onto the damp floorboards. A wave of vertigo washes over her and she feels her knees tremble.

When the dots at the edges of her vision blink away she’s shivering, goose bumps rising on her exposed skin, the air so much cooler than the water. Jaskier’s hands withdraw from her waist and arm, quickly reaching for the towel he dropped. He opens it out and wraps it around her shoulders, closing the fabric over itself in the front to cover her up, sliding his hand to sit back on her hip and help her to walk.

They manage four steps towards the door before she trips, feet clumsy.

The world drops out suddenly from beneath her and, before she can protest, she’s being lifted into Jaskier’s arms. She clings on to the front of his shirt, worried that he’ll drop her – but he’s sturdier than he looks, the muscles of his chest firm beneath her hands.

He steps around the bathtub, easily manoeuvring them across the room.

“I am capable of walking, bard,” Yennefer says, trying to inject some vitriol into the words and mostly failing. “I’m not an infant.”

His reply is quick, the same as it was earlier.

“I know.”

And she does feel a bit like a child; _small_ again, _vulnerable_ again. She won’t admit that being held like this makes her feel safe.

He’s warm. So _maybe_ she leans her head against his shoulder, breathing in the perfume that still lingers on his skin as he carries her down the hall, trying not to bash her into the walls of the narrow corridor. He catches her ankle against the doorframe going into the bedroom and she digs her nails into the flesh near his collarbone for a moment – just hard enough to make him yelp.

A shitty inn bed has never looked so inviting.

The exhaustion hits all over again, but this time without the aching in her muscles, the sharp pricks of pain in her head. She’s just tired now; sleepy and content.

Jaskier puts her down on the bed, the sheets already pulled back and ready. Yennefer goes to lie down but his hand on her arm stops her.

“You can’t sleep in a wet towel.”

_I can if I want to_ , she doesn’t say.

Jaskier goes to their bags, and Yennefer unwraps the towel from herself. Her hair’s dripping onto the covers so she raises it to her head, scrubbing harder than she probably should just to get herself dry faster.

Jaskier comes back over and hands her a smaller, thinner, fresh towel. She wraps it around her head, tucking the excess in until it’s secure. Then he gives her something else, a pair of her short braies and – more fabric, this time softer, well-worn. It unfurls in her grip and she recognises the stitching around an elegant neckline.

He shrugs. “It’s loose. Comfortable.”

It’s his chemise. Yennefer positions it on her lap, then lifts it over her head, pulling it over the towel until it rests around her neck.

She doesn’t realise she’s stopped until Jaskier touches the back of her hand, guiding her arms into the sleeves one at a time. He helps her shuffle into the braies too, her limbs loose and unwieldy. She scrutinises his hands, the way he touches her, gentle and undemanding.

He has nice hands.

She looks up to his face as he untucks part of the collar that’s folded under itself, his fingertips brushing feather-light over her chest.

Why _is_ he doing all of this?

Her thoughts are slow, unfocused.

It’s either that he feels some kind of obligation to her or her connection to Geralt… or that he actually cares.

He meets her stare, finally, his blue eyes just slightly wider than usual.

Yennefer smiles, small and knowing.

A pink flush rises in Jaskier’s cheeks. His fingers drop from the shirt as if he’s only just noticed they’re still there, hovering just above her damp skin. He steps back, eyes slipping away from her, finally letting her fall back to the bed.

She sinks into the mattress with a groan – just being able to lie horizontal feels luxurious and the sheets are soft and freshly laundered. The chemise smells like Jaskier. She wonders for a split second if _this_ will be the moment when he decides to try something – she’s in a bed, after all. But the thought scatters away as quickly as it came when she feels the blankets fall over her waist.

She forces her eyes open, just enough to see him. She hadn’t noticed but Jaskier’s clothes are drenched – even the sleeves of his shirt which he’s had rolled up past his elbows the whole time. The wet fabric clings to his skin and she’s not _not_ appreciating the build of his chest, the width of his shoulders. She tracks his movements as best she can while lying on her side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Jaskier tidies their belongings; removing the used towel and Yennefer’s filthy clothes, packing away her soaps and oils, before ducking out of the room for a few minutes presumably to inform the innkeeper they’ve finished with the washroom. She drifts, unsure how much time passes between each blink and jolt back to awareness. Jaskier comes back with damp hair and a clean face, the mixture of grime and makeup washed away so that there’s just bare, smooth skin remaining. He’s still in his dirty clothes though so probably hasn’t had a proper bath. It looks more like he just dunked his head in a bucket which, upon reflection, is probably exactly what he did.

He starts moving around the room again, footsteps careful and quiet. Yennefer watches as he quickly changes into clean clothes then kneels down in the narrow space between the wall and the bed, laying out the bedroll from his pack on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier’s head snaps up at the sound of her voice, surprised eyes meeting her heavy-lidded gaze. He looks panicked for a moment, making the face that’s usually reserved for when she’s telling him she’s going to mutilate him. He must have thought she was asleep.

“Well,” he starts to explain, pushing himself to his feet, “there’s only so much space in one bed, and I’ve heard tale that mages are notorious for their – uh – unusually cold feet, which is really not—”

He yelps as she grabs his arm and tugs him onto the bed, collapsing rather ungracefully at her side.

“Idiot,” Yennefer mumbles, shuffling backwards to make room for him.

She can feel his weight settle into the mattress, hear his heart thumping fast. He pulls the sheets up over them both, lying on his back.

She’s clean, warm, cared for – and feels heavier by the second.

Jaskier is a line of tension at her side. If she were to open her eyes she’s sure she would find him staring at the ceiling. It’s not hard, half-asleep and maybe half-mad as she is, to reach out and lay her hand over his chest. It rises and falls with a few even breaths before she hears movement, feels fingers close around her palm.

For the first time that evening, Jaskier holds her hand.

Yennefer breathes.

The beat of the heart beneath her palm soothes her as a lullaby would, steady as a drum, sweet as a song. The melody sways, slows, falls away, and the warm darkness pulls her under the water’s surface, silent and swift, into sleep.

* * *

Jaskier lies still for a long time.

He listens to Yennefer’s breathing, deep and slow, maps the patterns on the ceiling, strokes his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand.

The noise from the inn below has calmed, only a few murmured voices remaining, and the bed is comfortable enough – so he’s not sure what exactly is keeping him awake.

He turns his head.

Yennefer looks, well, _beautiful_. But she always does. Her eyelashes are dark and long, her hair falling in loose curls where it’s escaping the towel wrapped around her head.

He’d been scared, earlier – she’d collapsed on that road like a puppet whose strings had been cut, too far away for him to catch her, and for the entire journey to the inn she’d barely spoken, barely been able to walk. Fear – by now an old acquaintance – is still a violent, suffocating thing. It had had him gripped tight in its claws until he’d been able to see for himself that she wasn’t hurt, just exhausted.

He looks at her – at the dampness of her clean skin, at her slightly parted lips – and reminds himself that she’s alright.

Jaskier knows Yennefer had been watching him. She wasn’t exactly being subtle. He’d kept himself focused on helping her, not wanting her to think he was trying to take advantage of her. He’s her friend, in a weird and often confusing, sometimes aggressive way. He wants to help her when she’s in trouble.

He lets himself look at her now.

She twitches a little in her sleep, eyebrows drawing together for a few seconds before relaxing again. Jaskier thinks he could study her forever, bear witness to every movement, every expression, every word. She is a blazing fire he can’t look away from, a rushing river he’s trying to navigate, always pushing upstream.

Tonight she had been something softer. A dark flower unfolding in pale sunlight, perhaps, or a red rising morning, or a light through a keyhole. He’d write songs about her, if he could work out the metaphors. If she’d let him.

He turns onto his side, curling towards her, letting their entwined hands rest between them.

Her fingers seem delicate next to his, but Jaskier knows the power, the strength they have. He’s seen the things she can do.

His gaze rises to her shoulder, to the slight difference he knows is there, hidden beneath the fabric that covers her. He tries very hard not to think about her wearing his chemise, and fails spectacularly.

The world falls quiet, dim, the candles burnt down to nearly nothing. Jaskier looks at Yennefer’s peaceful face, at the smudge of makeup that still rests on her eyelids, and he thinks of her with new, vivid tenderness.

But most of all – he thinks as she shifts in her sleep, tangling her legs with his – he was right. 

Her feet _are_ fucking cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [tumblr](https://lothlaer.tumblr.com/)!


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